


Vince Noir; Viddy Star (The Complete Series)

by MamaZoom



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaZoom/pseuds/MamaZoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard finds something lurking in the flat that could change his and Vince's relationship forever.</p><p>Originally posted in five parts; Copy/pasted here in its entirety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vince Noir; Viddy Star (The Complete Series)

Howard stalks around the bedroom, throwing things to and fro haphazardly as Vince lays groggy in his bed, his sparkly blue duvet swallowing his tiny frame.

"Wha'are you doing 'Oward?" he asks as he sits up and runs a hand through his sleep tousled mane.

Howard spins on his heel, frantic. "Have you seen my trumpet? Lester I were going to have a jam session, but I can't find it anywhere."

"Why would I have your trumpet?" Vince yawns as he stands up, stretching.

"I didn't say you had it, I was just asking if you'd seen it." Howard proclaims as he riffles through a teetering mound of clothes on Vince's side of the room.

"Oi!" Vince squawks indignantly as he pulls on his drainpipes and fastens them. "Keep outta my stuff, yeah? I've got to meet Leroy down at Top Shop. There's a sale on." he squeezes into a skintight shirt effortlessly and leaves without so much as a 'see you later, yeah?'

Howard grumbles under his breath as he kicks a wayward ankle boot across the room. It sputters across the floor like a stone skipping over the surface of a pond and slides under Vince's bed--hitting something with a loud "CLANK!"

Howard cocks his head and listens, half expecting whatever it is under the bed to make the sound again of it's own accord.

Howard listens carefully for sounds coming from the shop and hears none--Vince was already gone and Naboo had packed his turban, hookah and Bollo all up on his carpet for another meeting of the Shamen. Apparently, their HQ security had been breached by a disgruntled leprechaun riding a crazed unicorn.

So there was no one there to stop him from---

Howard drops to his knees at the side of the bed and starts rummaging blindly. He pulls out two pairs of odd socks, three headbands, countless bags of assorted sweets, a can of Root Booster, a half eaten shurbert lolly and spare pair of Nicky Clarke crimpers before he stalks down to the shop--annoyed--to retrieve a torch.

Back in the bedroom, he lays next to the bed flat on his stomach, aims the torch and clicks it on. The beam of light hits something bright and makes him want to shield his eyes. He reaches in and pulls out the luminous item--His trumpet.

He shakes his head at Vince's lack of responsibility and notices the source of the earlier sound--a small padlocked box, the heel of the long forgotten ankle boot still resting against it.

Howard reaches in with shaky fingers and touches it, almost afraid it would bite at the contact. When it doesn't, he grasps it by the handle and pulls it out.

He gives the lid a tug and it comes loose--the padlock all for show, as much an adornment as everything else Vince owns. Howard is a bit perplexed to find the box's only content is a skimpy pair of lace and silk pants and a VHS tape. Howard picks up the tape (careful not to touch the pants) and holds it up. The label on the side reads "Playing Dress Up". Vince wrote it. Howard call tell Vince's handwriting anywhere. It is his habit of dotting his "i"s with little monkey heads and filling in gaps between words with crudely drawn spiderwebs that give him away.

Howard turns the tape over several times in his hands, contemplating whether or not to watch it. On one hand, he was invading Vince's privacy. But on the other, the contents of a hidden tape titled "Playing Dress Up" could prove to be good ammunition in one of their many tiffs.

"That settles it." Howard says to no one in particular. He carries the tape out into the front room and abandons it only long enough to fix a cup of tea and a bowl of popcorn. He slides the tape in the player and presses "play".

The opening shot is of a room he doesn't recognize. A stranger's bedroom. Howard retrieves a handful of popcorn from the bowl and makes a motion to bring it up to his lips. It doesn't make it. He spills the bowl; lets it slide from his lap at the sight that flickers on the screen before him. His handful of popcorn, however, stays frozen before his gaping mouth.

Vince is in the shot now, wearing only those pants Howard had found in the box. There is a look in Vince's eyes that confuses Howard. It's a mix of two things he'd never seen there before: nervousness and lust.

"Bend over the bed, love." A voice prompts from off camera. It's a man's voice--gruff yet lilting.

Vince does as he's told with a cheeky grin--presents his tight round arse shamelessly to the camera and the man behind it.

Howard swallows thickly.

"Do it." The voice goads.

Vince looks over his shoulder. "Do what?"

"Finger yourself."

Howard feels himself leaning froward for a better view, dropping the popcorn he still clutched in his hand. He watches as, still bent over, Vince pulls his tiny pants down mid-thigh; the elastic digging into pale, toned flesh.

Vince's hand disappears in front of him and Howard hears Vince sucking and moaning around his own fingers.

"Enough." the voice states.

Vince's fingers glisten with saliva as they creep towards his entrance. Howard holds his breath as Vince's index finger breaches the tight ring of muscle and he hears a sharp intake of breath. He's not sure if it came from him or Vince. He watches as Vince rocks back on his finger, building a lazy rhythm.

Howard's breath hitches as his cock starts to swell in his trousers. He aching to touch himself, but his mind is having a hard time letting him. It's Vince, for Christ sake! And yet somehow this fact doesn't make the noises coming from the back of Vince's throat any less sexy.

Howard allows the heel of his hand to put much needed pressure and friction on his cock when suddenly he hears something moving in the shop below.

********

 

Howard panics and hits the pause button. The dash down the stairs is clumsy and painful--his annoyingly persistent erection throbbing as he heads off into unknown danger. Is the Hitcher back? Or worse--has Vince returned early?

He reaches the bottom of the stairs just in time to see Lester open the storage door.

"That's the stock room, Lester!" Howard calls out before he hears a loud crash. He cringes.

"I'm okay!" Lester calls out. He reemerges and adds, "but some of that stuff your tiny shaman friend sells is shot to shit."

Howard sighs.

"Get your shit togetha, Moon! We got a jam session!"

"Alright, Lester. Just stay right there while I get my trumpet." Lester starts to speak again, but Howard is already half way up the stairs. He pauses when he reaches the landing, the image on the tv screen resurrecting the stirring Lester had so effectively killed.

Howard lets out a shaky breath and ejects the tape. He hastily hides it under his mattress but places the box back under Vince's bed, along with everything else he'd pulled out, save his trumpet.

"Oh yeah! Skittilly pow POW!" Lester exclaims when he hears Howard charging down the stairs. "Gunna have a session of jam! Spread it on toast with butter!"

Howard escorts his friend out of the shop and silently wonders why he surrounds himself with idiots.

 

Later That Night

Howard lays in bed, staring up through the darkness to where he trusts the ceiling to be. It's been a stressful day. He runs down the events in his mind:

Finding the tape. Well, that had been a shock in and of itself. But his reaction to it threw him for a loop. It's not that he never admitted to himself that Vince was beautiful or that he loved him, but when did that add up to lusting after him?

The trip to Lester's had been down right nerve wracking. Lester yelled at him several times for screwing up notes he could usually hit. Of course, he had screwed them up by letting his mind wonder to what he had seen earlier.

Once he got home, it only got worse. After having Lester scream at him for a good two hours, he was no longer aroused (even if he was more than a little tense and stiff everywhere else). That quickly changed, though, when he found Vince sitting on the sofa watching Colobos The Crab. His cock sprang to life. There was nothing different about Vince--same face, same clothes he wore out that morning--but Howard was different. He'd glimpsed another side of Vince. His backside, to be exact. He stuck around for a few minutes of idle banter before making an excuse about being tired from the jam session.

Howard had planned to use this excuse to get into bed without Vince seeing the rather obvious tent in his pants, but his plan was foiled when Vince clicked the tv off and followed him, complaining about shopping being more exhausting than blowing into a trumpet.

And that is why Howard is now laying in bed at half three in the morning, fully clothed under his duvet and sweating profusely.

"What are you doing?" Vince had asked as he peeled himself out of his drainpipes, watching Howard climb in bed in his cords.

Howard played it off, shrugging. "I'm a little cold is all." He hadn't counted on tonight to be the hottest in months.

On the other side of the room, Vince makes his typical unconscious mewling sounds. Quietly, Howard shimmies out of his trousers and strips off his shirt and vest. He rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow. His mind starts to wonder. To the tape, of course. He thinks about what he saw. He thinks about what he didn't see. What more did Vince do for the man? The camera? The attention? Howard rocks his hips slowly into the mattress, where the tape is hidden.

Did Vince make himself come with his fingers inside him? Or did he lay back on the duvet, spreading his legs like a little slag and pull himself off while looking into the camera? Where did his release land? Did it spill across the duvet as he was bent over? Or did it splatter across his stomach? Seep between his fingers?

Howard's hips stuttered and jerked violently against the mattress; his own release taking him by surprise. He let his orgasm flow pleasantly over him, muffling his moans against the pillow.

He lay spent on his stomach still, sleep finally visiting his troubled mind. Before he let it take him completely, though, Howard resolves to find out tomorrow how that movie ends.

 

********

 

Howard all but inhales his breakfast as Vince daintily spoons his sugary cereal into his mouth. Howard reminds himself to stay calm, that Vince will be out of the flat soon enough. After every sale Vince and Leroy get together to swap their more impulsive buys.

Howard's heart starts to hammer behind his ribcage as Vince gets up to rinse his bowl out. Naboo and Bollo wouldn't be back for three more days and he would have easily four hours alone while Vince was at Leroy's.

He watches intently as Vince slides on his leopard skin coat.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" Vince asks, noticing Howard staring.

"Er, yeah." Howard covers his mistake. "Eyeliner smudge."

Vince wipes under his eye. "Gone?"

"Yeah." Howard replies to Vince's already retreating back. He feels a sinking sensation in his stomach as he washes the morning's dishes. He's been noticing more and more lately how he and Vince have been slowly drifting apart like polar ice caps. It put a bit of a halt in his step; a kink in his kinky plans.

He takes a bottle of scotch from the bar in the corner and settles on the sofa. He was saving it for when he finally met "the one", but he breaks the seal anyway, taking the first long swallow of many that night.

 

An Hour Later

 

Howard is wedged beneath Vince's bed in search of the box. An hour ago he vowed to leave the tape alone--sneak it back into the box and forget he'd ever seen it. Now, one bottle of scotch and morals gone, he's frantically searching for the little black pants to use as a masturbatory aid.

He blindly feel the metal edge of the box and tugs at it, pulling out almost everything else he'd removed the day before. The silk is cool in his palm; the lace scratchy. He holds them for a few moments and wonders what it would feel like to pull them off Vince's slender frame with his nimble trumpeter's fingers--with his teeth. He stuffs the pants into his trouser pocket and retrieves the tape from under his mattress.

His footsteps are heavy and he sways a bit from side to side as he walks down the corridor to the tv.

He has second thoughts as he feeds the tape into the machine with a shaky breath, but he pushes them aside and presses play.

The tape starts up where it left off the day before--Vince bent double over the side of the bed, teasing himself with one finger. Howard watches as Vince rocks back on it, letting tiny noises escape his lips that make Howard feel flushed with fever.

"Add another. Go on." The disembodied voice prompts gently. Howard tries to ignore the annoyance and anger he feels towards this stranger and focuses instead on Vince.

He pulls his index finger out to the first knuckle and lines his middle finger up with it. Howard leans closer to the screen as Vince buries the second finger inside himself. He can hear every panting breath and imagines each one ghosting over his skin and that fevered feeling intensifies. His cock is filling rapidly--a strange feeling invading his belly.

"Oooh! Ah!" Vince makes the most marvelous and unintelligible sounds, his fingers deep inside himself.

"Feel good?" the voice asks.

"Mmm, god yes!" he moves his fingers and makes a whining sound.

"Pull 'em out." the voice commands.

Vince does as he's told and braces himself against the mattress with both hands, waiting.

Howard unfastens and unzips his trousers, pulling his cock free. He grasps himself firmly, giving himself a good squeeze but not stroking.

"On your back." the voice says.

Again, Vince is more compliant than Howard has ever seen him and he has to fight off the anger he feels towards the unknown man. Vince climbs onto the bed fully, limbs shaky. He flops down on his back, graceless and needy. Howard drinks in the sight of Vince naked, wanton and waiting--all hard angles, flat plains, sharp points. His cock lolling at half-mast against his hip.

Howard runs the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock, collecting the pre cum beaded there. He bites his lip and refuses himself anymore friction, just until he sees where this is going.

"Touch yourself. Slowly. Like when you're alone." the voice goads.

The rise and fall of Vince's chest is heavy as he nods his compliance. He runs a hand down his torso slowly, teasing each nipple on the way down, tickling ribs, ghosting over clinched stomach muscles. He grasps his cock at its base, giving it a squeeze as he licks his lips--sucks the bottom one between his teeth and bites gently.

Howard takes the pants from his trouser picket, wrapping the silk bit around his cock and makes a great effort to keep his breath steady. He watches Vince closely, mirroring him stroke for stroke. He can feel himself edging closer and closer to release and can tell Vince is close too, by the way his thighs are jerking and twitching--his heels digging into the carpet. But Howard holds off; wants to see Vince come. Burn the image into his mind.

Vince exhales heavily through his nose and his brow furrows. "Mmm. Can--can I please--"

Howard bites down harder on his lip, fearing he might not be able to hold off much longer.

"Can you please what?" the voice asks.

"Ah. Mmmm." Vince looks as though he might cry at any second. Still, he collects himself and answers the man. "Come. Can I please come?"

Howard has to let go of his cock at the sound of Vince begging for relief. It almost pushes him over the edge. He rests his hands on his thighs, instead, waiting to see what else happens.

"No." the voice responds. "Put your hands above your head and don't move."

As Vince does as he's told with a whine, Howard pauses the tape. He's faced with a bit of a dilemma. It was fine, in his mind, to watch Vince by himself. But how did he feel about seeing him with another person? Was one more wrong than the other? Howard decided he was already jealous of this man and he was already going to hell, anyway, so he might as well see what he looked like.

Howard presses play and his heart stops beating.

The man in the tape was tall and broad. He had a bebop vibe about him. Curly brown hair, small brown eyes with hints of lines around them. A mustache.

The man he was jealous of looked exactly like him.

 

********

 

Howard feels a choking sensation in the back of his throat, like his heart is about to come rocketing out of his mouth, but he swallows it back down. He watches as his doppelganger runs a rough palm up Vince's thigh. Vince twists and turns on his back, not daring to move his hands.

"Mmm....Harold, more!" Vince whines and Howard loses his breath again.

"Hang on, little fella." Harold says as he climbs between Vince's legs. Howard watches as Harold reaches for something under a pillow. It's a tube of some goop and Howard knows just enough to realize it's lube and now the room is spinning and he can't get a grip.

Harold spreads the lube over his cock, eyes locked onto Vince. Vince is breathing heavily now, so much so that it seems as if he can't take in the air fast enough as he watches Harold stroke himself, biting his lip in anticipation.

"You like that?" Harold purrs in his Northern accent and Howard starts to feel a bit ill.

"Yes" Vince moans.

Harold laughs and without warning thrusts into Vince with all his might. Vince cries out, twisting in the sheets like a man thrashing in the ocean. Harold grips Vince's hips hard, pulling them towards him to met every thrust. Vince is rolling his hips and moans something Howard can't quite hear, but has the sneaking suspicion that it might have been his name--Howard, breathing in and out of Vince's saliva slicked and parted lips. He's so confused and caught up in what's going on on the screen that his own cock goes untouched, his fingers pressed up to the screen and face inches away from the moving images like a small child watching their favorite cartoon.

Howard watches as Harold abruptly pulls out. The whine this elicits from Vince is quickly replaced by a moan as Harold licks up Vince's cock with one long, slow swipe of his tongue.

"You like that?" Harold asks "you little Camden slag. You wanna come in my mustache, don't you?"

Howard feels a swarm of emotions flood his brain like angry bees. He wants to punch this Harold wanker in the face, wrap Vince in his arms and protect him from the stupid tosser, even though Vince is clearly loving what he's doing. He wants to press the stop button. Eject the damn tape and forget it even exists. But he can't--he's frozen in this pre-recorded moment in time and can't stop it until the tape runs out. And more than anything, he's turned on more than he's ever been in his life.

Vince makes a glorious, hoarse sound as he comes. Howard can see Vince's cock twitch between Harold's lips and still yet he can't bring himself to press the stop button. Instead, he watches as Harold dives back into him with reckless abandon, thrusting wildly as Vince shouts, egging him on. Harold finishes with a grunting cry and flops down next to Vince, on the side of the bed away from the camera.

Howard is still confused, and a little bit hurt by what he's seen. As he reaches for the stop button, Harold opens his mouth and speaks.

"That is what you wanted, right?" The Northern lilt to his voice is gone, replaced by a surprisingly American accent. Howard stills, waits for Vince's response and tries to get a grip on what exactly is going on.

"Yeah, you were great, Harry." Vince gives him a sweet smile, but rolls away from him, facing the camera but not looking at it.

Harold clearly doesn't notice how sad and broken Vince is. Not like Howard would if he were there. Harold gives a chuckle. "You know, it's not every day I get a request for something like you were asking for. Most of my clients want me to dress up as a woman, sometimes even something fucking random, like a pig. I've never heard of someone with a kink for Northern jazzy freaks before."

Howard sees a tear roll down Vince's cheek--a sad smile parts his lips. "Yeah, well, s'not a 'kink', really. I'm only in'ta one jazzy freak."

Harold is looking at the ceiling, bemused if not a little confused. "Is it someone you work with? A friend?"

Vince gives a small chuckle. "Both, actually." Howard can see how pained he is by this, laying in bed with a prostitute and telling him his secrets. "We've been mates for ages. I've dropped hints, but 'Oward's so thick when it comes to seduction, I don't even know why I bother."

"Why don't you just tell him?" Harold asks, lighting up a cigarette and sitting up.

There's another small tear leaking from Vince's eye, one you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking for it. His thumb makes it's way into his mouth and his brow furrows. Howard can tell he's thinking of a way to contextualize his emotions, bring words forth for feelings that can't be explained. The insecurities he feels but never shows. The love he gives quietly, daily.

Howard hits the stop button. And then the rewind button. He listens to the buzz-whizz of the machine, the ticking of the clock on the wall. The honk of a pissed off taxi driver outside the flat. The pounding of his heart. There's a whirring sound in his head and he wants it to stop so he can think clearly about all he's seen and all he's heard. Howard knows he loves Vince. Hell, everyone did. It was a well known, albeit unspoken fact. And Vince, apparently, loves Howard.

So why did this feel so complicated?

The tape ejects once it's done rewinding and Howard takes it out of the machine with shaky fingers. He looks down to see the pants still wrapped around his ridged cock and feels ashamed of himself. It's a deep and embarrassing shame that even the scotch he'd consumed in mass quantities earlier couldn't mask. He pulls the pants off gently and tucks himself back into his trousers. He hides the tape and pants in the box, pushes it deep under Vince's bed and shoves all the other forgotten items in after it.

He runs a hot shower, boiling hot. It beats down on him like a white-hot bully on a playground on the sun, pummeling until white flesh turns red. He bites his lip hard, rests his hot forehead against cool tiles and wanks himself off. He watches the come dribble slowly down the wall, sticking in the groves of the grout like honey on a waffle and feels so guilty he gives himself a Chinese burn on both arms before retreating to bed for a very restless night.

 

*********

 

Howard wakes up the next morning to find Vince staring at him from the other side of the room, still under that ridiculous blue sparkle duvet.

"Alright?"

Howard blinks several times, trying to clear his mind. "Hungover."

Vince looks down at his lap where he has the duvet bunched up. He's clearly nervous. "Yeah, I saw the empty bottle when I got home. Are you---are you okay? I never seen you drink that much."

Howard runs his hands over his face, buying time. No, Vince, I am not okay. I spent all of yesterday evening watching my best mate get a good bumming from my long lost prozzie twin and

"Yeah, I'm fine. Lester came 'round while you were gone and we watched a documentary on the cinematic thriller." Howard gets up and busies his hands with getting himself dressed while his mouth lies to Vince.

"Lester was here?" Vince wrinkles his nose and his brow furrows in confusion. "Funny. The flat don't smell like ham an' regret."

Howard feels the first genuine urge to laugh in days. It catches him off guard. "Did you make tea?"

"Nah. I was waiting on you to wake up and do it." Vince smiles and Howard gets the urge to smack him, but lets it pass.

His head is throbbing as he puts the kettle on to boil. He turns around to get the tea bags off the side when he notices Vince still in his vest and pants, sitting on the sofa. He looks sad.

"What's the matter little man?"

Vince looks up, startled. "Oh. Nothing." He shrugs and turns on the telly.

Howard sighs. Something needs to be done. He silently kicks himself for letting it get to this point--for letting their friendship get so out of whack and mostly, for watching that tape. Because even now, as he lowers the tea bags into the mugs of hot water and watches them steep, he wants to shout from the top of his lungs I KNOW YOUR SECRET!. And even a man of his social ineptitude knows that that is the wrong thing to do.

He passes Vince his mug and settles down next to him, silent as images flash across the tv screen. He allows Vince the rare privilege of throwing his legs across Howard's lap. Vince has got on socks that don't match--one blue with black stars, the other green and purple stripes--and it makes Howard laugh.

"Wha's so funny?!" Vince's indignant voice rises several octaves.

"Your socks!" Howard gasps between laughs and soon Vince is grinning.

They ease back into silence, although this time it's a bit more comfortable. Howard's eyes drift from the tv to Vince's bare thighs and then back to the flickering screen every few minutes. It's not like he's never seen them before. They've shared a room almost since they've been friends. But Howard doesn't really recall a time when he was so close and so....naked. Before he really knows what he's doing, his hand snakes out to rest lightly on Vince's thigh.

Vince makes a point of not reacting, but the muscles beneath Howard's palm twitch. He holds his hand steady for a few moments, getting used to the feel of someone else's bare skin under his. When the programme neither of them is watching goes to commercial, he moves his hand back and forth, stroking gently over pale skin and dark wiry hair. Vince sighs and Howard takes it as a good sign. He moves his hand down, over Vince's bony knee, then skirts over his thin shin and stops to tickle the bottom of his green and purple striped foot.

Vince reacts immediately, which is exactly what Howard wants. He sits bolt up right and pins Howard down with surprising strength. "Not cool!" He says sternly through a warm smile.

Howard chuckles, not knowing what else to do exactly. Finally, once Vince sits back down next to him (his feet pointed away from Howard), he says "You didn't stop me."

Vince laughs. "I didn't stop you from what?!"

"Touching you. Like that." Howard's eyes haven't left the tv, but he can see from his periphery that Vince isn't looking at him, either.

Vince forces a smile, all bravado "Well, I'm not the one always going around and sayin' 'Don't touch me', am I?"

Howard swallows hard and makes the most important decision of his life. "You can, you know. Touch me now. If you want."

Vince's eyes go wide and his jaw drops. "Why now?"

Howard knows he's blushing. He knows he shouldn't tell Vince about viewing the tape. That it would make this all seem like he was only in it for sex--make it seem like he thought Vince was an easy lay. He doesn't want that. He wants Vince to know what Howard's always known, what he's always denied even to himself.

"Because. This is foolish. We're foolish. I know I haven't been honest, with myself especially, about how I feel about you. It's---uh, it's just--" Howard found himself struggling for words, feeling how Vince must have felt laying next to that stranger and trying to find the words to describe how he felt.

He searches his mind for poetry, something substantial and profound to stutter and suddenly it's unnecessary, because Vince's mouth is on his, soft and gentle and tentative. Howard panics, not realizing until now that this, kissing would be part of being a couple. He freezes, the chokes all over again.

"You're gunna have to move your mouth at some point, 'Oward." Vince states dryly, lips still against Howard's. He pulls back and there's a smile on his face and that tight ball of guts in Howard's stomach unwinds itself and suddenly things are alright. Because this isn't just anybody. This is Vince, a fact that scared him initially, but he now finds solace in. He carefully grasps each side of Vince's perfect and open face with his rough hands and the thought occurs to him of just how big they are as he pulls Vince gently back in.

Howard moves his lips against Vince's and it's good. It's better than good--it's better than anything he could have imagined. It wasn't like jazz, because it was Vince he was kissing, after all. It was more like drinking tea with too much sugar while Charlie Parker played softly from somewhere outside. Or swaying your hips to electro music while wearing cords. It was like elements of both of them colliding to make something messy and perfect.

Vince sweeps his tongue across Howard's bottom lip. It befuddles Howard as to why exactly Vince would find the need to do such a thing, but his mouth opens anyway, as if on command and suddenly Vince's tongue is moving slowly inside his mouth and he understands. After a few blissful moments, Howard starts to work his tongue in tandem with Vince's and it's glorious. He feels as though he's melting into the sofa and he doesn't care, just so long as the pleasant sensation of being pulled underwater doesn't leave him. Vince moves to straddle Howard's lap, never breaking the kiss.

Howard's hands move from Vince's face--one to the back of is head, playing through hair, the other to feel ribs disguised thinly beneath skin and a black vest. Vince moans into Howard's mouth as the bigger man singles out one particular rib and strokes his thumb along it's curving length. The hand in Vince's hair leaves it's warmth to travel down his back to his arse, kneading softly. This illicits another moan from the younger man. Vince's hands (which have been braced against the back of the couch until now; too scared to ruin the moment) find their way to Howard's chest and start unbuttoning his loud and jazzy shirt.

Howard's heart rate quickens--faster than any time he's done jazzercise--and his grip on Vince's backside tightens. Vince's head drops back and a loud groan escapes his lips, more genuine sounding than anything he heard come out of him while he was with Harold and Howard takes this as a good sign.

"Good?" he asks with a cheeky grin, something he's picked up from years of living with Vince.

Vince chuckles, his voice dark with lust. "Very."

"Bedroom?" Howard asks.

Vince leans in for a quick kiss, pulls back and answers "At this point, anywhere would be fine with me."

Howard laughs, his heart skipping several beats as they make the race towards their bedroom. They fall down on the nearest bed (Vince's) and Howard rids himself of his unbuttoned shirt. He's nervous--this is by far more taxing than any encounters with Yetis or small blue men. And far more exciting. Howard is flat on his back, Vince resuming his place on his lap, a leg on each side of him. The sunlight glistens through the shutters across Vince's face and hair and Howard can see bits that the dye has missed--some of Vince's natural brown hair sneaking through. He smiles as he raises the vest over Vince's head--allows his hands to travel from his neck to his shoulders, fingertips over collarbones, down his flat chest, clenching stomach muscles and to the trail of hair leading into his tiny blue pants.

And for once in his life, Vince looks shy, like he actually has something to lose juxtaposed to just having yet another thing handed to him. He looked ready to fight for what he wanted, to show exactly how much he wanted it and the look he's giving Howard could suck all the oxygen out of the ocean if they were near it. Vince leans down and presses kisses to Howard's neck, his teeth grazing skin. His tongue lapping over bite marks. Howard's already fragile head starts to spin. Vince sucks at Howard's nipple, gently at first, increasing the suction then rolling his tongue over the hardened nub until Howard is gasping, his hips moving to find friction without first consulting his mind.

Vince unfastens Howard's trousers swiftly, not wasting anymore time. "You get these off, yeah? I've got to find my lube." He pants and Howard nods fervently like it's the greatest idea anyone has ever had in the history of the cerebral cortex. He wrestles himself out of his cords and tosses them to the floor--stays kneeling on the bed. Vince comes back from the bathroom with a small tube (thankfully not the one featured in his little.....home movie) and lays down next to Howard. He smiles widely, radiant, and pushes his fingers under the waistband of Howard's boxer shorts and they pool around his knees, his cock straining up towards his belly. Vince's eyes are dark as he drinks Howard in--the want clearly there, like looking at an endless display of drainpipes, Black Tubes records, shurbert lollies and hairspray only infanitly better. Vince peels his own pants off while Howard discards his boxers, tossing them to the floor.

Howard takes the lube from Vince's hand and smears a generous amount over his fingers as Vince looks on wide-eyed like he didn't expect Howard to know what exactly to do with it. He pushes Vince's legs further apart, settling in between them.

"Ready?"

Vince nods and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

Howard takes in a shaky breath as the tip of his index finger breaches the tight ring of muscle. He watches Vince's face contort in pleasure as he pushes further inward. Pulls out a bit, pushes back in. He develops a rhythm, slow, curious, enraptured with the effect he was having on the younger man, the spell broken only when Vince whispered "more".

Howard added a second finger, the stretch tighter, the pain clearly greater as Vince's lip went white around the teeth that held it capture. He watched Vince's brow furrow in concentration, his chest rising with every inhalation, falling with every exhalation. He pushes ever further and crooks his fingers like he saw Vince do in the tape. Vince's eyes snap open, a surprised and pleasured cry escapes his lips.

"Ah! Howard! Again!"

Howard strokes lightly over the same spot then pulls his fingers out to the first knuckle and adds the third. Vince turns his head, presses the side of his face into the pillow and gasps. Howard groans at both the reaction he's causing and at the thought of how it would feel to thrust himself into that tight, perfect heat.

"Now 'Oward, please!"

Howard doesn't need any more incentive. He smooths a good layer of lube over his cock, and lines himself up with Vince's entrance. "I, uh, I don't think I'll be able to uh, last very long, Vince."

Vince is still panting but manages a warm smile "Me either. Just go. Do it."

Howard sheaths himself inside Vince with one fluid motion and they both moan. Howard's head is swimming pleasantly and he leans down to press his chest to Vince's in an effort to anchor himself in the reality of the moment. He builds a rhythm that is quickly abandoned, both of them thrusting urgently, Vince's hipbones rising up and colliding with his skin. Howard takes Vince's cock in his rough palm and tugs, still without rhythm but it doesn't matter because Vince comes with a loud cry and Howard follows shortly after with a few rolls of his hips, riding it out.

 

The Next Morning

 

Howard rises to an empty bed and a commotion in the back garden. He peers out the small window and sees Vince filling in a hole he's dug and trying to be quiet. At Howard's feet is the box, padlock still intact and lid thrown open. But now it's empty. The tape and pants gone.

And Howard doesn't have to be a shaman to know Vince is burying his past in order to move towards the future.


End file.
